Carolyn Wells

“ The talk drifted to the house and its architecture.
“The whole house is a gem,” said Alan Ford, enthusiastically, “but the staircase is a marvel. Nowhere in this country have I seen its equal. Your husband studied abroad, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“For years. He took great pride in building this house, as he intended it to be a masterpiece.”
“Which it certainly is. Have you the plans of it? I should like to see them. Architecture is one of my hobbies.”
“No, I haven’t the plans, Mr. Ford.”
“Oh, of course, they went to Mr. Stannard with the title deeds. Have you them, Mrs. Stannard?” ”

“ Goldenheart
A murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. Public Opinion was not with the Coroner, however black the case might look against the pretty little model. For “model,” Natalie was always called, in spite of the fact that she was an honoured guest in the Stannard’s house. And she looked like a model. Her manners, though correct in every way, were not those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert débutante. She had the poise and assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an innocent, rather than ignorant, child. ”

“ But we will prove it was not you, my Eugene—we will prove it.”
“Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. To whom have you told this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?”
“To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. Barry and Beatrice, and, of course, little Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when the Priestess’ story seemed to clear Natalie and me of all suspicion of guilt. But if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!”
“No, not worse. A man can fight injustice better than a woman. Have you told Roberts?” ”

“ She looked directly toward the chair where Stannard had died. Her half-vacant glance centred on it, and in a moment she began speaking. She sounded as one in a trance. She was alive but not alert, like one sleep-walking or talking in a dream.
“I see it all,—clearly. I see the artist in his favourite chair. He is at his work,—no, not working, but gazing at something, criticising work that he has done. It is not a picture—it is a small panel. He takes up a tool,—an instrument, a sharp, pointed one. He hesitates, and then with a sudden angry exclamation, he scratches and mars the work. ”

“ In the Studio
Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.
A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman’s back, when he should have been standing at attention. ”

“ In other respects, Eric Stannard had few faults. He was upright, honest and generous. He was kind and he was truthful. And he was extraordinarily brave and honourable. But he was inordinately selfish and of sybaritic instincts. He would not try to curb his admiration for a new and pretty face, and though absolutely loyal to his wife in honour and principle he was a flirt and a gallant, much in the way of a butterfly among the flowers. His genius it is not necessary to speak of. He is known here and abroad as one of the greatest artists of the century. ”

“ Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed toward the beautiful girl, his model.
“Natalie,” he said, “not Joyce.” The last words were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.
“No!” Natalie screamed. “No! Eric, don’t say——”
But Eric Stannard would say no word again in this world.
Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows.
“Do something, Blake,” she cried. “Get a doctor. Get Mr. Barry. Call Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does it all mean?” ”

“ And so, I want to stop investigating, and leave Joyce in peace. And then, after awhile, she can marry Eugene Courtenay, and be happy.”
“Does she want to marry Mr. Courtenay?”
“Of course she does. He was in love with her and she with him, before she knew Mr. Stannard. Then Eric came along and stole her,—yes, stole her,—just like a Cave Man. She was carried away by his whirlwind wooing, and—too—he was celebrated, and—well,—you know,—magerful,—and he just took her by storm. She never really loved him, but she has been good and faithful, though he has treated her badly.” ”

“ The studio was in absolute darkness.
Ford rose quickly and crossed the room to the light switch by the hall door. He knew the position of the furniture, and felt his way by the chairs. As he did so, he heard a long, gasping sigh, and a faint cry of “Help!”
By this time he had reached the switch and turned it on. The sudden flash of light showed no one in the room save himself, but not pausing to look about, he unlocked the hall door, passed quickly through and ran up the first steps of the stairs. ”

“ This time she wore a robe of dark green, as full and flowing as the white one. There was no suggestion of Greek drapery, but an Oriental style of billowing folds that would have been hard to imitate. A jade bracelet showed beneath the flowing sleeve and a jade ring was on one finger of the long, psychic hand.
“May I look at it?” said Natalie, as they sat a moment, before beginning the séance.
“Certainly. It is my talisman,—my charm. Without it, I could do nothing.”
“Really? How wonderful!” and the girl looked earnestly at the carven stone. “Your power is occult, then?” ”

“ With scarcely a pause and without hesitation, Orienta went on:
“‘What can I do to help?’” No hint was needed, for all felt sure this was Beatrice Faulkner’s question.
The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: “Nothing more than you are doing. Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here and they are appreciated.”
“The rest in the light?” asked Bobsy Roberts, impatiently.
“If you choose,” returned Joyce, and Roberts switched on the electrics.
Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness. She seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark. ”

“ That evening Barry Stannard was not at home, and Natalie declared her intention of trying to learn something by psychic or clairvoyant revelation. The three women sat in the Billiard Room, and were for the thousandth time discussing the tense situation.
“Why, if you want to try it, Natalie, go ahead,” said Joyce, wearily. “It certainly can’t do any harm. Barry only objects because he thinks it will get you into a nervous state——”
“Nonsense! It makes me more nervous to be forbidden to do what I wish. Come on, let’s go in the studio, and try it, at any rate.” ”

“ For reasons of my own, I’m going to hunt down the murderer of Eric Stannard. There’s nobody on the job that has any push or perseverance. Young Stannard doesn’t want the truth known. Why, I can’t say. Nobody suspects him. But from now on, count on my untiring efforts. I’m ready to work with you, Captain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one you say. Or I’ll work alone. But solve the mystery I’m bound to!”
Courtenay’s manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own innocence, though Bobsy Roberts afterward growled something about “protesting too much.” ”

“ Dr. Keith looked at the speaker in amazement. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Barry, my boy. It is not possible to ignore the facts and causes of an occurrence of this sort. Do you know who stabbed your father?”
“No, I do not. Nor do I want to know. Father is gone, no persecution of any innocent person can restore him to life, and the criminal can never be found.”
“Why not? Why do you say that?”
“I feel sure of it. Oh, listen to me, Dr. Keith. Be guided by my wishes, and do not seek the one who brought about my father’s death. Joyce, you agree with me, don’t you?” ”

“ Of course, too, that little golden heart that was bought and never presented was meant for me.”
“You told Orienta to say that Mr. Stannard said ‘Neither Natalie nor Joyce.’?”
“Yes, for I really think that was what he did mean to say. He wouldn’t implicate me, even with his dying breath, but he tried to clear them. He was a wonderful man, Mr. Ford. Not a good man, perhaps, but a brave one. He would have defended any or all of us, but he had no chance. My love for him has been the mainspring of my whole life. Instead of forgetting him, I grew more madly in love with him year by year. ”

“ It seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apartment to the demands of the occasion, and many of the audience sat timidly on the edge of the luxurious chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures, statues and artistic paraphernalia. In the original plan the studio had been a ballroom, but its fine North light and great size fitted it for the workroom of the master painter. Nor was the brush the only implement of Eric Stannard. He had experimented with almost equal success in pastel work, he had done some good modelling and of late he had become deeply interested in etching. ”

“ I heard, as I sat there, the soft opening of the panel in the studio balcony, and I knew she was coming down the little stair. I heard her click off the light, and just as she did so, I caught a glimpse of her in my mirror. So I went out at the hall door, snapping on the light as I passed, and went up on the grand staircase, knowing I would head her off, and have her practically penned in there. Mrs. Stannard found me waiting there, and I arranged for her to witness the confession that I knew must come. I did not foresee that Mrs. Faulkner would take her own life, but perhaps it is as well. ”

“ Stannard:
Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. ”

“ So Bobsy and Natalie sealed their envelopes, and stamped them with their rings.
“I won’t do that,” said Joyce, “it’s too silly. We all know there’s no trick in it.”
“Shall I read these in the dark or in the light?” asked Orienta, as Bobsy held the five missives toward her.
“Why not as you did before?” said Beatrice, “part of them in darkness and part in light. I think those read in the dark even more wonderful than in the light.” ”

“ You see, he had said to me, several times, ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ by way of a teasing bit of love-making. Eric was not a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from making love to any woman he might chance to be with. And when I would reprimand him and bid him go to his wife, he would laugh and say ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ till it became a sort of by-word with him. ”

“ Natalie, have you any idea how beautiful you are?”
“If I am, I am glad, for your sake. I needn’t ever pose again, need I, Barry?”
“Well, I guess No! A photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the nearest I shall ever let you come to a portrait! Dear, when will you marry me?”
“Oh, I can’t marry you! I can’t—I can’t!”
“Then what are you doing here? This is no place for a girl who isn’t to be my wife!” and Barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed jacket. ”

“ Though outwardly calm, Beatrice Faulkner’s voice trembled, and was so low as to be scarcely audible. But she stood her ground bravely, and her eyes met Barry’s for a moment, in the briefest glance of understanding and approval.
“Hum,” commented the astute Roberts to his favourite confidant, himself, “the Barry person is in love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly lady is his friend, and she’s helping him out. She isn’t telling all she knows, or if she is, she’s colouring it to save the implicated ladies.” ”

“ Many of those whose voices were loudest in declaring the innocence of Joyce and Natalie, expressed private views that stultified their statements. And some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a thought of Blake. But most stood out strongly for the burglar theory, ignoring all obstacles in the way of the marauder’s entrance, and repeatedly insisting that the non-appearance of the jewels was sufficient proof of robbery. ”

“ It must have been one of these who flashed the light on. They are a man,—a servant he is,—and a woman. Both are terrorised at what they see. The two women near the chair of the dying man accuse each other of the crime. But this is the frenzied cry of shock and fright. They do not mean it—they scarce know what they utter. The dying man raises his head in a final effort of life. He sees the scene with the clearness of the dying brain. He hears the servant say, ‘Who did this?’ He replies, with upraised, shaking finger—‘Natalie—nor Joyce.’ He means neither of these innocent women was concerned. ”